Say It Anyway
by karebear
Summary: "Sorry isn't enough to fix this." "You should say it anyway." Kirkwall felt like an end, but somehow life insists on continuing forward anyway. A moment four years in the aftermath for Anders and Hawke. For Suilven's birthday.


For **Suilven**, who has a birthday coming up this weekend. I asked her what she wanted, and she said "write me anything." I cannot ever write young children or family scenes without thinking of how you taught me how to do it first. Thank you for being my friend.

And also for **Acherubis**, who has helped me far more than I could have ever dreamed with world-building. This simple scene is one moment pulled out from a complex story which would probably not exist, and certainly in nothing close to its current form, without your friendship.

* * *

Anders is sitting in the dark, in a quiet ramshackle house like the ones he'd grown up moving between across fields, chasing the crops. When he'd been a boy, these places were never quiet; they were always crammed full of people, his family and as many other poor migrants as could fit, sleeping on thin pallets or just curled up on the dirt floor. He'd never gotten to know any of those other people; his life has always been one of constant motion and never getting attached. And it is still.

In the dead of winter in one of the emptied wastelands of Ferelden that had never bothered trying to recover from the Blight, it's something of a miracle that this little shack is still standing. It will provide refuge for a few days, maybe up to a few months, until the spring brings its warmer weather and the farmers who may try this year again to bring life back to this land. Until they come, Anders will stay here on dark cold nights, with old wood scratching his back as he leans against the side of the house, with only one rotting board that may once have been a front step between him and the frozen ground.

He will stay here, and he will fight nightmares. And he will wish, once more, that he was alone. But he is not. As he loses himself to his dark thoughts, a little girl pushes into his silent space. She frowns up at him, silent and cautious, but before he moves or says a word, she crawls into his lap and rests her head in the crook of his arm. Anders sighs. He bites his lip, but he cannot seem to summon the motivation it would take to squirm away. The little girl rolls over onto her back and exhales dramatically. "Mommy says you should say sorry if you hurt someone," she announces.

A tiny smile creeps across Anders' face. "Sorry isn't good enough to fix this, Lexy."

"You should say it anyway?" There is the hint of a question there, in the lilt of her voice. Anders knows she comes to him for answers. She clings to him, far more than to her mother. And it breaks his heart. And terrifies him. He is not safe for her to be around. Guilt weighs heavy in his stomach. Lexa frowns up at him, her dark eyes full of questions he will never be able to answer. She watches him with suspicion that he recognizes all too well. It is the fear and mistrust of a Circle child, weighing the risks of getting hurt.

Anders picks her up, tickling her belly as her shirt rides up above his fingers. She flinches away from the cold of his touch, and a giggle escapes her lips. He hugs her tightly to his chest, and his fingers play through the dark curls of her hair, so like her mother's. His breath catches somewhere inside him, somewhere between lungs and throat, choking him. Tears sting his eyes. She thinks he'll hurt her.

Her chubby arms wrap tightly around his neck, and her head droops until it rests against his shoulder. He shifts her in his arms and rubs her back in slow circles. He sends out a warm wave of energy, soothing magic, almost without thinking. Lexa nuzzles against his shoulder, a trusting smile on her face. "Go to sleep, baby," he whispers.

He flinches as the energy he'd sent to her flips back around and settles over him. He frowns. "Lex, you can't do that," he insists.

"But you do." He looks down, meeting the eyes that watch his without blinking.

"I know I do. But I... shouldn't either. Using magic, it's... dangerous."

She shakes her head, so stubborn, so determined. And he clings to her even more tightly because he will never, ever let anyone take her away from him. His miracle child. "I'm not dangerous." Anders' heart catches in his throat. Was that just a slip, or did she say it somehow knowing full well that the world would draw no distinction between the magic she uses and the person she is?

Lexa is special, there are moments when she understands more than any child should, more than he does. And then there are the dreams that haunt him, past and future tangled together in a twisted line of fire and blood. He hugs her even closer, afraid to lose her, grateful more than ever now for the gift that she is, his one reason to move forward in a world broken by his own actions. He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, and her squirming restlessness eases. She relaxes in his arms. "You are mine," he whispers to her. "And I love you. Forever. No matter what."

Lexa nods, and falls asleep against his shoulder.

He carries her carefully inside and tucks her into bed, smoothing the blankets over her as she sleeps, keeping his movements steady and slow, so that he does not wake her.

He watches her sleep, and he does not look up. To look away from his sleeping daughter would mean forcing himself to acknowledge the rest of the world that surrounds them. And he's not sure he's ready to face that. It gets harder to do so with every passing day. He's aware of Hawke watching him; her concern – shading to fear – stabs at him, as he pointedly avoids her. He's hesitant to pull his hand away from the place where it rests on their child's small shoulder: her warm breath puffs out onto his fingers, already warmed by the heat of her skin. Lexa murmurs and shifts in her sleep, rolling over, and Anders, very reluctantly, withdraws his touch. He curls his hand into a fist and tries to relax. He can't though. His muscles remain tense and strained as he curls up in the chair watching his little girl sleep.

"Come to bed. Please," Hawke begs him. Her voice has taken on the sing-songy whining quality that makes her sound so much like the child they are struggling to raise.

He gives her a sidelong glance, one that makes his stomach flip-flop because he can't help but notice the darkening bruise painting her cheek. She could've healed it, certainly. But she won't. Because every spell they cast risks bringing the templars down on them, and because he forgets too easily already.

"Callin, I'm so sorry," he whispers. The words barely ghost over his lips.

She doesn't respond, not in words, but she's _there_, suddenly, wrapping her arms around his neck. She kisses him, gently at first, but then with the fierce passion he remembers from Kirkwall days. "I am never going to leave you," she reminds him. Again.

He pulls away from her and curls up alone and tries to remember who she is, why she'd stay. "You have to!" he screams at her. Again. It is an argument that he will never win. He reaches out to trace the bruise he'd given her, when the voices got too loud and he couldn't think, couldn't _see_. It's getting harder and harder to seperate reality from his nightmares, and he is strangled by guilt at the knowledge that she's the one who gets hurt when he tries to fight, and fails. He bites his lip and closes his eyes. His thumb slips down her jawline, trailing magic.

Once upon a time, he'd been able to heal gently. Now, the mana pours out from him with harsh violence, a wash of power beyond his control. Callin squirms and shakes as he forces his will upon her body. The bruises disappear, but she is breathing heavily, and the shivering tremors don't fade. Neither does her fear. "Anders," she whimpers. He silences her with a kiss, desperate and demanding. And she returns it after only half a heartbeat's hesitation. She tastes of heat and desire, and he collapses into her waiting arms. "I love you," she insists. She repeats it over and over, giving him that anchor that won't last. She kisses him between murmuring reassurances. Her hands move over his body, leaving a fever-hot trail of touches, lingering ghosts of her fingers on his arms, his neck, his waist. She draws him in and leaves him drunk on the scent of her, the feel of her. He loses himself in her, and this is the most dangerous addiction of them all. It leaves him weak and light-headed, dizzy.

She stills suddenly, and he is nearly blinded by panic, the fear that she will go away, that she will leave him alone. He claws for her. His untrimmed nails rake bloody paths across her wrist. She shudders only slightly, and rests her palm against his cheek. She looks into his eyes, stubborn and determined as always. "Stay with me," she demands. And in this instant he believes that she can overwhelm the forces that pull him away. He nods.

Her arms wrap around him, until his breathing slows. She hugs him close, and holds his body to hers in a reassuring squeeze. When she kisses him this time, it's gentle. It lingers, warmth and sweetness on his lips. He sighs softly. "I need you," she whispers in his ear. "_We _need you."

Anders lets his gaze drift once again to their three-year-old daughter, asleep in a bed far too large and too small to contain her, and he nods. "I know," he whispers. He wishes that were enough.


End file.
